Amriika (9 page)

Algiers a decade ago: on one side the native quarter, the casbah, the jumble of dusty, narrow, close-packed streets and mud houses and barefoot Arabs; on the other side, the spick-and-span whites-only European quarter where even children come out wearing socks and shoes, women shop in supermarkets, and teenagers dance gaily in cafés. It does not take much more to remind you where
you
came from, your Kariakoo in Dar es Salaam was the casbah. In the movie, a colonel of the French paratroopers, fresh from the campaign in Indo-China — tall, handsome, commanding, wearing crisp army camouflage, shades, and a beret — gives the order, and a guerilla hideout in the casbah, including women and children, is blown up. As the colonel says to the newspaper reporters, today an insurgency in Algeria, tomorrow where? And you realize the answer is probably: Vietnam.

And you, Ramji, are coming to realize that there
is
a different way to view the world than the one you were used to.

Of course, it’s not just the movie that’s told you this, it’s the whole political scene around you, the flyers and protests, the special lectures, the debates on television, your peers, your roommate Shawn Hennessy. And it seems impossible now, it seems crass, to come from a country small like Vietnam, and also a colony of Europe once, and not feel a tug of sympathy for it. You wish you could turn away from the issue — but it’s all around you — and think of the generous people and the scholarship, the wonderful things and great opportunities in this land of the free.

The big issue this spring was military research on campus. Could a university maintain its freedom and yet remain tied to directed research for the military? Did it befit a university’s free spirit to be involved in the design of weapons, in methods of destruction of human life and habitats, as was going on even now in Vietnam?

On a Tuesday in April a large, noisy rally set off at noontime on Mass Ave to seek entry to and otherwise confront the Tech’s Lorentz Labs, which were actively involved in the development of weapons systems —
MIRV
missiles, helicopter gunships, and much else that maimed and killed. The rally was given a rousing send-off
on the front steps of the Tech by none other than the resident genius, Peter Bowra, speaking from his wheelchair in his trademark hoarse voice, appearing fresh from another awe-inspiring lecture to the freshmen on the wonders of the universe that were matched only by the wonders of the human mind. And so, encouraged by this voice, the freshmen, radicals or not, tagged along behind the rally. The procession was met at the door by the director of the lab — the “Doc,” reputedly once a colleague of Bowra at Los Alamos, now an arch-enemy — flanked by an array of stout policemen. From there the demonstrators, chanting their slogans, went on to confront President Ronald McDonald and presented their demands for an end to military research on campus.

This concern for humanity and peace, Ramji thought as he stood at the back of the crowd watching demonstrators haranguing the Doc, can it be real, is it sincere? Back in Dar we thought only of our small community; sometimes we prayed for peace in the world, but not convincingly. What did we know of the world? We could not think of all of humanity as these Americans do, with such immediacy, such urgent concern. But then we did not have the power to destroy the world, did we? Nevertheless, how liberating, how exhilarating, to think that one belonged to a larger world, cared about it, could make a difference to it!

The Tech’s President McDonald finally yielded to protests, announcing a temporary moratorium on defence-related research. And the faculty, with Peter Bowra as their spokesman, voted overwhelmingly in support of a moratorium on
MIRV
.

There
was
a different way to look at the world, and you didn’t have to be a kook or some screaming wild-haired freak to be a part of this new thinking.

The year was drawing to a close, and to top it off on a high note
before exams, Janis Joplin gave a scintillating concert in the armoury, ending with “Me and Bobby McGee” in that throaty voice that reverberated right up to Central Square. And as you emerged into the warm Saturday night stirred to the core you couldn’t help thinking of yourself as a
student
, a passionate species apart that would not compromise its values as the adults had done.

Ginnie come lately …, the words of an old American song would come ridiculously to mind at odd moments. He was obsessed with her, dreaming of clandestine meetings in hotels, passionate encounters, steamy love scenes in back seats of cars; but nothing developed. As the weeks passed, she did not swoop in upon him, putting up at the Inn on Harvard Square or the Sonesta, as he imagined. At times he would be gripped by a wild fear — suppose she died suddenly, suppose the chemotherapy didn’t work? But on the phone she was lively, it was difficult to imagine her being sick. And, as always, she was solicitous of him. John would be with her then. One day he told her quickly, “You know, sometimes I think that whole Christmas week — that New Year’s — was imaginary.” He thought he detected a brief pause, before she laughed and blithely replied, “My dear, count on it — it was all real!” And his heart sank. Because together with the passion and desire, there was, simultaneously, a small wish in him to be done with it, this cowardly sin of adultery and hypocrisy. But he was trapped, by memory, and by sweet anticipation.

Meanwhile, something had arisen, and he reported it in the form of a riddle to Sona: a naked fat ass has landed with a cat and taken over the room.

On the Sunday morning following the Joplin concert Ramji had been shaken awake by the bed heaving suddenly. Startled, he watched a pair of legs, thighs, and naked buttocks descend from the upper bunk and land with a thud on the floor. He gawked at the chubby girl who had jumped down — she wore a short dress and had a short crop of straggly black hair — unable to believe what he was seeing. Hi! she said cheerily to him, after which she proceeded in haste to put on her panties followed by jeans under the dress, and he was staring, thinking, Doesn’t she wear knickers in bed? And suddenly there was Shawn’s red head smiling triumphantly above him: Nice? he crowed.

Jeans on, the girl removed her dress by pulling it over her head, revealing naked breasts, and put on a T-shirt.

There came a blood-curdling animal shriek, frightening the already bewildered Ramji out of his skin, as a small creature bounded from the bed above down to his desk.

“Meet Husserl,” the girl said and hurried out, presumably for the bathroom. Husserl was a dark grey cat.

“And the girl’s Kate,” added Shawn from above.

Ramji watched the door close behind her — chubby and unkempt, he observed to himself, and looks slept-in; he was ashamed at the thought. But how long am I going to last in this menagerie — aren’t there any rules? — with a couple making open love, and a cat named shamelessly after a philosopher. He’d come late last night and plopped straight into bed in the darkness. They must have been in bed then.

Shawn had met Kate at the student takeover of the Harvard president’s office earlier in April. Their hitching together was consecrated by a night spent in jail following that event, to which the cops had turned out in large numbers and a combative mood. Kate
was a Radcliffe freshman and she became a regular visitor, coming Friday night and leaving Monday morning. Saturday was protest day for the two of them, and they would set off to demonstrate against the war, the draft board, or some injustice perpetrated against workers in Boston or Cambridge. On Sunday afternoons they went about distributing and posting leaflets around the campus, and for added effect they wrote graffiti on walls and notice boards. “Ali Akbar Khan, Emmanuel Kant,” Shawn would write as his signature line, following which, “Bring the War Home,” or “U.S. Out of Southeast Asia,” and so on. They had a regular shadow in the Tech’s corridors, a chunky
YAP
— Young American Patriot — with crewcut who would pull down the flyers and deface the graffiti, writing some of his own: “Love it or Leave it,” “Communist Propaganda,” “Bowra’s an Ass.” Kate’s role was to trail the
YAP
, cross out or appropriately edit his words, and add some of her choicest.

Ramji came to dislike Kate. She was wilfully dirty, and she crowded the room, leaving her things all over, deliberately, he thought, to needle him. Nights, the two thrashed about shamelessly on the upper bunk. They offered to take the lower bunk, but Ramji declined, opting to keep the easy access to his bed. But he began to come in late and leave early.

“You want to try her?” Shawn asked him one day. “She’s wild, man. She won’t mind —”

“No!” emphatically, clenched mouth.

Why did he hate her so? She wanted to be friends, even though she called him Domino — apparently Shawn had told her about their first meeting, in which Ramji had confidently and innocently reported his theory about containing Vietnam. (No doubt they had had a good laugh at his expense.)

She frightens me, he thought, being candid with himself. She
frightens me because I am so far behind them, in how far I can go. With sex, for example. The showdown came when he found her used underwear on his chair. This is it: What do they think of me? A Third World person they think they can walk over, and
they
talk of exploitation?

“You go,” he told her. “I don’t want you using this room.” With his slide rule he picked up the panties and threw them towards her.

Shawn and Kate apologized, pleaded, and begged, but agreed finally: she wouldn’t come to the room. But of course she did, only she kept out of his way.

The three of them were walking on a cold windy April night across Harvard Bridge, a thin drizzle raining cold needles on their faces. The river lay dark and miasmic below. April lets you down, he thought. Funny how you begin to think of weather, in this climate. You form expectations and then judge reality against them. Why would the universe know or care that come March 21 it should begin to smile upon you ceaselessly? …

“This meeting — I hope it’s worth it. What a time to set a meeting —”

“Relax.”

“Hm.” He sniffed.

Kate was humming. She’s from New York, she’s used to this bone-chill. And he’s from Boston, positively relishes the cold.

“It’s Saturday night, no one else’ll be around the house,” Shawn explained.

“So the meeting’s private. How do you know it’s for me.”

Kate stopped, he and Shawn stopped. “Look, buddy. If you don’t want to come, fuck off.”

They stood there, halfway across the bridge, faces wet, shoulders hunched against the wind, hands in their pockets.

“Take it easy,” said Shawn to Kate. To Ramji: “You were invited and agreed to come. There’s no point in going back now.”

It was Shawn who had brought the invitation, saying, There’s going to be a meeting of people who’re interested in doing something for the Third World. I’ve spoken to the guys involved and they would like to meet you. A radical meeting? Ramji asked, intrigued. Sort of, Shawn had replied, Why don’t you try it? Ramji nodded, all right. And so here he was, on his way with Kate and Shawn and wondering if he had not said yes too hastily.

“Do you know which way the wind blows?” a guy called out, as soon as Shawn finished introducing Ramji at the front door. There was a moderate buzz at this, and all eyes were on the guest.

“Uh.…” Ramji turned to look behind, towards the door, as though he should have noticed the wind direction, and there was laughter. “Oh — that’s Bob Dylan,” he said, recovering, and grinned at the one who had spoken. But who are these guys?

He was in the living room of the Student House, a low-budget coed co-operative he had once considered as a residence but rejected because it had looked too informal in the brochure. He had been right. The room was crowded with college types sprawled out on the hearth rug by the fireplace, crammed in on the stairs and the landings, and overflowing into the kitchen. There were no chairs around. Three people sat on an old sofa, which had been turned away from the fireplace to face the meeting: a strikingly pretty girl in miniskirt and boots, a rangy, bearded guy wearing a red beret, and between them Professor Linda Hodge, who taught a course called
Imperialism and History. She was in a red sweater and black skirt, beautiful as always, brown hair falling loosely to the shoulders. She was beaming, apparently waiting for the room to come to order once more before she continued her spiel.

“This country is at war, we all know that. We also know that wars have always been
fought
by young people, but
made
by politicians and the industries they serve. And so it is an appropriate irony that this struggle against the war machinery and American imperialism is being carried out mainly by young people on the home front. You are the true war heroes, you are the vanguard. No more will young people take up arms simply because their greedy elders tell them to — and use them against the people of the Third World, be they in Chile, in Vietnam, or in Cambodia, simply because these people refuse to acquiesce to the demands of Uncle Sam and his multinational henchmen. But imperialism is far from beaten. As Lenin said …”